


Just Give Me A Reason

by ispun



Category: Formula 1 RPF
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-09-17
Updated: 2013-09-17
Packaged: 2017-12-26 20:02:12
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 9,962
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/969725
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ispun/pseuds/ispun
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff"><p>i've had a couple of requests to write another part to this. however, this was written in the midst of a very bad break-up and is thus painfully close to my real life. i doubt i will ever get back into the head space to write another part so you'll just have to imagine that simi lived happily ever after (or did they?)</p><p>disclaimer: none of this happened. <br/>rating: black flag</p><p>i always welcome constructive criticism, kind comments and gentle nagging to write more. if you find any errors, whether they are language-based, factual or formatting, please do let me know.</p></blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

_Right from the start/you were a thief/you stole my heart_

**Turkey 2006**

You don’t care what the other drivers do and you have said so hundreds of times in interviews. The paddock might be buzzing with talk about this new German who had set the fastest time in P2 for Sauber, but you aren’t interested. There’s always some new person for people to talk about. People could set fastest times all they liked; it doesn’t bother you. Your race was with yourself and with the track. It always had been. Anyway, you’d set the fastest time yourself yesterday. Right now, you are more interested in a hot shower and a cold drink.

Back at the hotel bar, fresh from the shower and wearing the only smart clothes you’d brought with you, you see a new face enter the crowd of drivers. Young. Really young, with a mop of blonde hair and a shirt open at the collar. He’s shaking hands with different people: with Felipe, with Jenson; he already seems to know Michael. You’ve just ordered another drink, when he looks up at you and suddenly his face lights up with the most dazzling JFK-style smile you’ve ever seen. The waiter clears his throat and says “sir?” and it’s obvious he’s been trying to get your attention for a few moments and then you wave your hand and he sets the vodka down and the young man walks up to you and sticks out his hand and you get this feeling in your stomach as he half says and half shouts:

“Kimi Raikkonen! I’m Sebastian Vettel. Everyone calls me Seb.”

And he gives you that smile again and a bomb goes off in your heart.

——————————————————————————————————  
 _And I, your willing victim/I let you see the parts of me/that weren’t all that pretty/and with every touch you fixed them_

**Germany 2007**

The hotel room is dark; the curtains are drawn. It’s the third time that there’s been insistent knocking on the door. The third time that a plaintive voice has called your name over and over. But you just lie there, listening to the rain, listening to your heart beating. You are somewhere else, someone else. After 15 minutes, the voice goes, the knocks stop; but you know that in 10 minutes, it will start again. There’s nowhere to go. You could stand up now, walk out and drive and drive and drive until all this pain is gone from your heart but you know that there’d only be someone standing in reception waiting to talk to you, or press outside desperate to catch a photo of you looking pissed off.

There is more knocking and this time a click and a murmured thank you and suddenly the lights are on and there he is. His face is all concern. You feign sleep as he speaks your name. He sits on the bed. He ignores the broken glasses, the half empty bottle of vodka beside your bed.

“The cleaner let me in. I gave her 100 euros.”

He’s trying to make you laugh with his boldness. You feel nothing, nothing.

“Kimi. It was bad, what happened today. But you need to keep your focus.”

Silence.

“I know it’s the worst possible result.”

He doesn’t know. He’s not a contender. Not yet. He will be one day, that ruthless streak that runs a mile wide in him is obvious to everyone. But not this year. This is your year. And a stupid technical problem with the car and Alonso gets first and your chances lie in ruins.

He lies down next to you, kicks off his shoes. You’ve become friends in the last year, slowly but surely. It’s hard for you, so you keep him at a distance, because every time you see him your stomach flips over, and every time you are together you have to stop yourself grinning like an idiot. And now he’s here, trying to comfort you and all you can do is stare at the ceiling. He touches your shoulder. Your stomach is in a contest with your brain. Your brain is trying to hold that numb feeling, trying to stop the emotion, but your stomach is doing loops at his touch. You turn your eyes to him. He gives you a little smile. You reach out to him and he holds you as you sob. After, you’re embarrassed, but he just shakes his head and smiles that little smile again. You say his name and he says yours and then you’re kissing. You pull away for a second, checking with your eyes that this isn’t just you who feels this. He places a hand on your neck. You brush your lips against his wrist and those blue eyes look into yours. You see your own desire reflected back in his.

“Is this what you want?” you whisper.

He smiles.

”I’ve never wanted anyone more.”

Suddenly, everything is forgotten. The hurt, the anger, the humiliation is gone and he is sitting on top of you and you’re grinding against each other in a way that makes you both groan loudly and all you are is tongues and skin and lips and muscles, every part of your body desperate for contact with every part of his all at the same time.

He moves down your body, placing kisses on your chest as he goes, and then he’s taking off your shorts and your underwear, both of you staring into each other’s eyes. He kisses up and down the length of your hard cock. He sticks his tongue out and runs it over your slit, making you gasp, making him smile.

Then he takes all of you into his mouth and you feel a shudder go through your whole body. He moves his head up and down, taking your whole length into the back of his throat, before pulling back up and rolling his tongue around in a way that makes you gasp. It only takes a few minutes of this before you come in his mouth and you hold his head down onto you, and his breath is coming in short grunts which just makes it feel even better and then you’re lying in each other’s arms and you kiss him on the forehead.

“Sebastian,” you whisper.

He laughs quietly.

“No-one calls me Sebastian except my mum. She used to tell me I was named after the lobster in the Little Mermaid.”

“Little Sebastian lobster,” you tease, tickling him on the stomach.

He squeaks and throws his arms around you and kisses you full on the mouth. You can’t imagine that there is greater happiness than this. You watch as his eyes flutter, as his breathing becomes deep and even, and you pull him close and dream about how the rest of your lives will play out together.

——————————————————————————————————————-

_Now you’ve been talking in your sleep/things you never say to me/tell me that you’ve had enough/of our love_

**New Year’s Eve 2007; Monaco**

There’s fireworks in the sky and champagne corks popping over the dark Mediterranean. People thump you on the back and plant sticky kisses on your cheek and shake your hand. Everyone is drunk as hell and it’s a wonder no-one’s fallen off the yacht yet. You don’t know where he is. It’s your year, the year you finally won the championship after all the setbacks and complications and near misses, you made it. It’s midnight on the last day of your year and he’s nowhere to be seen.

You weave your way inside as people shout your name and congratulate you; your smile is small and tight, and there he is. He has a drink in his hand and he’s half standing, half slouching and that 500 kilowatt smile is plastered all over his face but it’s not for you. It’s for the tall man in front of him, who’s gesticulating wildly. You stare at him, and he sees you and shouts out your name.

“Kimi! World Champion! Come and talk to me and Jenson! World Champion!”

He stumbles over and embraces you. You pull back: no-one knows about those long, lazy evenings when all the press has been done and all the debriefings are over. When you relax into each other’s arms, tracing lines of kisses over his face, over his neck. How he murmurs your name as your fingers wind through his hair. How his skin, warm and soft, presses against yours, your limbs tangled together. The filthy words that spill from your mouth as you fuck him. No-one knows about the Christmas you spent together, the tree you put up, the presents you gave each other, the long walk in the Swiss snow that ended with him straddling you in the cold, your frozen hands on his thighs. No-one knows that you’ve whispered promises to each other, that you’ve sworn you’ll never part, that he has moved all his stuff into your house and that it’s no longer his stuff and your stuff but just stuff, stuff that both of you own together. No-one knows that the Iceman is in thrall to a man he calls Little Lobster, after the character in the Little Mermaid; how after time, the name morphed into LL and sometimes just El. No-one knows that he calls you Kultaseni, a Finnish endearment and that slowly that morphed into Seni, the longer version reserved only for very rare and special occasions.

Jenson smiles at you. You know he’s no threat. He’s straight as they come. Still, you stare up at him, unflinching, unsmiling, while Seb witters on about nothing, a drunken stream of consciousness. Jenson senses your irritation and, giving a little grimace like he’s in pain, excuses himself to get a drink.

“What you doing?” slurs Seb. “Why you being so unfriendly to Jenson?”

“You’re drunk. You missed new year. You said we’d spend it together.”

“We are together! Together now!”

He’s shouting and people are looking. You stare at him, telling him with your eyes to keep it down.

He looks down and seems to sober up in an instant.

“You can’t tell me what to do, Kimi. You can’t get everything your own way all the time. You don’t own me.”

Suddenly, you feel defeated. You are the older one, the world champion. You’re famous for your lack of emotion, your detachment. And here you are, whining after this young man, who’s so loved by the whole paddock, who charms everyone stupid with his smiles and his jokes while you glower and stare and keep your earphones in to stop anyone bothering you. This young man who you fell in love that very first moment, who now spends less and less time in your arms and more time with other drivers, going on skiing trips and drinking binges and last minute holidays that you’re not always invited to. The nights he does spend in your bed you watch him as he sleeps, and when you try to pull him close as often as not, he nudges you away, grumbling in his sleep. And you don’t know what to do, but you do know that if you don’t get away right now, you’re going to burst into tears right there in the middle of the party and everyone will talk about it forever.

—————————————————————————————————————-

_Just give me a reason/just a little bit’s enough/just a second, we’re not broken, just bent/and we can learn to love again_

**Spain 2008**

It’s your turn to comfort him. He’s had a terrible first few races of the season and you know he’s starting to worry that he’s never going to make it to Red Bull, that he’ll never make it in Formula One. He’s gone to have a bath and you’re lying on the bed, trying to think about what you can do to make things better for him, wondering if the present you got him is romantic or stupid. You’re thinking about how you can make things better for you both. You’ve muddled along for the past few months, and sometimes things have been nice and sometimes they’ve been hard. He says you’re too unemotional, too unromantic and you accuse him of preferring to spend time with anyone other than you. The Finnish lessons and the German lessons that you promised each other you’d take back in the beginning never seem to happen and so you’re always trapped in this third option, where neither of you can always quite express what you mean, where the nuances are lost. There are so many things you want to say to him that only make sense in Finnish.

He comes out of the bathroom wrapped in a towel and rubbing his hair dry. You take in his wiry, muscular body, no fat anywhere, tanned and golden from days in the sunshine. He’s been distant for days, since well before the race. You don’t know what’s going on in his head and you’re too scared to ask.

“Do you feel better?”

He sighs.

“Yes. I don’t know.”

“Do you want to go out for food? Nando said there’s a seafood bar that’s quiet and they can get us a private table.”

So you go out and you’re fiddling with the gift that’s in your pocket as you order. The food comes, stacks of shellfish for you and lobster for him. You take it as a sign and, before he starts attacking the lobster like he attacks everything in life, you draw the gift from your pocket.

“I got you this…to…well, to remind you of me, of us. Little Lobster.”

You place the gift in his hand, a soft toy of the lobster from the Little Mermaid. A reminder of that first night together, of all the nights you’ve spent when you’ve whispered each other’s pet names in the dark. Of the lights on the Christmas tree as you ate Christmas dinner and laughed at each other’s terrible cooking. He looks up at you, those eyes as wide as a child’s and you laugh when he kisses the lobster on the face.

“My own little lobster! My own Sebastian!” he exclaims.

“Do you like him?”

“I love him. Little Lobster loves the little lobster.”

He holds the toy up and points it at you.

“And Little Lobster loves you,” he says, in a lobster voice.

You feel tears prick your eyes and your reach across the table and take his hand. He brings your hands up to meet his lips, gazing into your eyes and kisses your fingers.

“I love you, Seb. Don’t ever think I don’t,” you tell him, hoarsely.

“And I love you, Kultaseni.”

He props the toy lobster up and looks down at his plate.

“I feel bad eating this now,” he laughs. “Don’t look little lobster.”

He turns the toy away from the plate and you love that he does that, and then you spend the rest of the meal feeding each other and whispering about all the things you’re going to do once he’s at Red Bull and you’re champion again and you’re both in charge of the world.

———————————————————————————————————————-

_It’s in the stars/it’s been written in the scars of our hearts_

**Jordan Rally 2010**

“You can’t leave,” Sebastian had shouted. “Not after everything we’ve been through. You promised me you’d never leave.”

But you’d had to leave. Every single contract negotiation you’d had after Ferrari had ditched you had fallen through, leaving you with two options: sign for a team you could never hope to win with, or leave Formula One. And you’d decided to leave, not sure that you could handle the pressure any more, not sure you wanted to compete with your boyfriend, who was doing so well, finishing second in the championship in his first season with Red Bull.

And now you’re here in the searing heat of Jordan, not sure what the hell you’re doing in rallying, and Seb’s over in Malaysia, and you haven’t spoken to him in days. You’re sick of your co-driver and sick of feeling like the car is made out of bricks and your co-driver is sick of you telling him how slow the car is.

You finish in the points, but you find it hard to care, and you return to the hotel, hot and dusty and longing for a bath. But you pick up a message from Seb at the hotel and you call him. When he answers, his voice is tinny and distorted and you’re not sure what he’s saying for a start, but then you understand that he had sex with someone else last night and you drop the phone and stare at the wall. A woman. Images flash through your mind of Seb’s mouth on breasts and thighs, of sweet whispers and gentle caresses, a million miles from your guttural exclamations and bruising grip. You see her, tiny and slender, Seb towering over her, wrapping her in his masculinity. You rub your hand over your face, have a shower and go out and do the only thing you know to do in this situation. You get blind drunk and do exactly to him what he’s just done to you.

When you get back to Switzerland, Seb is there waiting for you. You look at each other wordlessly and your heart throbs. He’s caused you so much pain but you still burn for him. His face is puffy and his eyes are red and you just want to comfort him, to tell him that it’s still him, it’s always been him, but you can’t, because you’re so scared you’ll lose him. You’re so scared that this thing that you felt was meant to be was just a big lie, just a game to him. That he’ll pass it off as youthful experimentation and you’ll see his picture in all the magazines, slipping a ring onto the finger of a ditzy young blonde as the world’s media coos.

He has the lobster toy in his hand and he points it at you.

“Little Lobster is very sorry,” he says, in a tearful voice. “Little Lobster loves you, he always has. Little Lobster was a stupid boy and he hates himself for hurting you.”

You sigh and bite your lip. His gaze is on you, willing you to speak. You sit down next to him and put your head on his shoulder. You sit in silence, as darkness falls and the house grows cold.


	2. Chapter 2

_I’m sorry I don’t understand/where all of this is coming from/I thought that we were fine/  
your head is running wild again/my dear, we still have everything/and it’s all in your mind_

**Christmas 2010, Finland**

It’s Christmas and Seb is on top of the world. This time it’s his year. He spent much of the winter after the final race running about from newspaper to newspaper, TV station to TV station, talking about being Formula One’s youngest ever world champion. And parties. Always endless parties that he always invites you to, that little incident when you were in Jordan still playing on his mind. He’s still trying to make it up to you and he knows that you’re still hurting, still wary of him being out of your sight. But you never go, or only rarely. Why should you? To watch him dazzle the room while you stand at the side daring people to distract you from your ice cold vodka? More often than not, a particularly confident or drunk woman sidles up to you, starts giving you the come-on and you just walk away. Some days, the pretence just seems too much to bear and you want to march up to Seb, right in the middle of a Tag Heuer launch or a Ferrari party, pull Seb away from whichever PR woman he is currently flirting with in the name of sponsorship, and kiss him full on the lips. The thought both amuses and arouses you.  
You haven’t seen each other for more than a day at a time since November when Christmas arrives, although you feel like you can’t turn on the TV without seeing him grinning and joking with some interviewer. You decide to meet in Finland two days before Christmas, in a cottage out in the country that you rented so no-one would disturb you. Both of you went to see it in October and the landlord gave you both a set of keys. You’re pretty sure he doesn’t care what you’re up to, but Seb tells him you’re having a huge Christmas party there for all your friends, wary of stories making the papers. There’s a lake, two saunas, a huge garden and countryside all around you. It takes you several hours to drive up there; the snow is bad, but you know it’s going to be worth it. What you need right now to be away from everything and everyone, away from this year of crashes and break-downs and cars that don’t do what you want them to. What you need is a Finnish winter, the soft snow enveloping the whole country, making you feel like there is no escape, no end. As if winter will never end and it will be just you and him in this cottage forever, quietly living out the rest of your lives.

You arrive, open up and begin hauling presents and decorations and food out of the car. It takes close to thirty minutes and your hands are frozen by the time it’s all inside, despite your thick gloves. You decide to start with the tree. You prop it up in its bucket and cover it as best you can with baubles and lights and the German biscuits that Seb loves. You stand back to admire it. It looks a bit wonky, but it’s more or less fine. You stick an angel on top. It looks a bit like Seb, all scruffy blond hair and bee-stung lips. You’re just dotting some candles around when your phone rings: Seb.

“Seni, hey, it’s me.”

“Hey.”

“Where are you?”

“I’m at the cottage. Are you close? The roads are pretty bad. I can come to pick you up if you can’t make it through.”

“Oh right. No, I’m still in China, my flight’s tomorrow morning so I’m…”

“Wait, what? China? Why are you still in China?”

“There was a party. Red Bull want to expand there and they needed me.”

“But you’re meant to be here today, Seb.”

“It’s fine, isn’t it? One day doesn’t make a difference. I’ll be there tomorrow.”

“Right. Fine. I’ll see you tomorrow.”

“Seni, I’m…”

You cut him off.

“I’ll see you tomorrow, Seb.”

You sit down on the sofa. The phone rings, but you switch it off. You feel like kicking something. The TV, the table, the stupid tree that you thought looked pretty nice but now just mocks you, with its pretence of jollity. Here you are, dashing up to the cottage, putting up a tree, buying mountains of food, thinking stupid romantic thoughts about being snowed in forever, and he’s partying away in China like it’s no big deal that you haven’t seen each other in weeks. You see him, everyone congratulating him, the youngest ever champion. The thought makes you frown and you push it away.

You want to cry, but you know if you cry you won’t stop. The doctor had told you you needed to stop drinking so much and gave you some tablets to help you sleep better. You wonder what the difference is. The drink helps you sleep and you feel like shit in the morning, and the tablets help you sleep and you feel like shit in the morning. All things being equal, you decide to go for the tablets, if only because they knock you out so completely that you feel like you’ve died for a few hours. And you don’t dream about him. You’re meant to take one, but you wash down two for good measure, lie down on the huge bed and wait for them to take effect, wait for the swirling thoughts of youngest champions and races lost and Ferrari ditching you and rallying to start to become more jumbled, taking on a surreal edge, before they cut out completely and you’re plunged into blissful darkness.

When you wake up, it’s to the sight of Seb’s concerned face jammed up against yours.

“Wake up! Wake up! Are you ok?”

You grumble into the light and wave him away, trying to get your bearings. Seb sits on the edge of the bed. 

“Are you ok?” he repeats, face all concern. “I’ve been shouting at you for ages. You must have been so drunk yesterday.”

“No, I wasn’t drinking. I’m fine,” you mumble, still drowsy. You reach for a glass of water and down it in one. “What time is it?”

“Two o’clock.”

“In the morning?”

“No, silly. In the afternoon. Wow, it must have been a heavy session if you don’t even know if it’s morning or afternoon. Come on, up you get. A nice walk to clear your head.”

You pull the blanket over your face. A walk right now in the freezing snow sounds like hell but Seb is already wittering on about snow angels and snowmen and other things to do with snow. You consider taking another pill and just falling back into another sleep. You could just forget Christmas, forget that woman in Malaysia, forget that Seb thought a party with airheads was more important than coming to you. Maybe when you woke up again, everything would be fine.

“I love the tree,” Seb tells you. “It’s beautiful.”

You know it’s not beautiful. He’s being kind.

“And so much food. All the good German Christmas stuff. You’re a nice boy when you’re not being a grumpy thing. Now get out of that bed and come and walk with me. I’m going to make you a sandwich and a coffee and then we’re going out.”

You sigh as he marches off to the kitchen. Yes, he’s being charming and he’s only doing what he does to everyone every day, at every press conference and media launch and modelling shoot, but every time you fall for it. All he has to do is compliment your tree-decorating and you’re putty in his hands. You hear him bashing things around in the kitchen, singing some German Christmas song at top volume. You rub your eyes, get up, stick the tablets in your backpack so he doesn’t see them and go to brush your teeth. As you stumble through to the kitchen, still a bit dizzy from the pills, he shoves a sandwich in your hand and a mug of coffee.

“Sit!” he shouts. “Eat! Drink! I’m going for a shower.”

If anything, the championship title has just made him more enthusiastic. There’s energy coming out of his pores. You can feel it, like a physical entity in the room. You sit down, eat your sandwich (which has all sorts of weird angles and about 15 different toppings – it’s quite possible that Seb has never actually made a sandwich in his life) and drink the coffee. You hear Seb crashing from bathroom to bedroom, and you wonder how he can make so much noise. You pour yourself another coffee and start to feel a little better and as Seb emerges from the bedroom, wrapped in gloves and scarf and hat, you feel a tug on your heart. You open your arms up to him and he falls into your embrace, kissing you on the neck.

“You’re not mad at me?” he murmurs.

You don’t say anything. You can’t deny it. 

“I’m sorry. I just…I don’t know. People were being nice and the party was fun and…there wasn’t anyone else, if that’s what you think.”

“I know.”

“I’m sorry.”

“I know.”

What can you tell him? Yes, you’re upset about the party. But what’s really hurting is his success. You were the one who blew everyone away when you’d hardy stepped inside a Formula One car before, scoring points in your first ever GP. You were only 21 and you were so sure that you were going to be the one who won 10 consecutive Championships, that everyone would remember your name forver. And now you’re rallying and no-one cares and some days, you would actually quite like to do an interview, just to feel like someone is still interested in you. But how can you tell him that? How can you tell him that you feel inferior to him, this boy whose eyes widened the first time he ever saw you, when you’d had the power to make him go “wow” just at the sight of you? 

You let go of him and go to put on your clothes. When you go back through, Seb is sitting on the sofa looking sorry for himself.

“I really am sorry, you know,” he says, sadly.

“Shut up. Come on. Let’s go.”

You leave the house and start walking. There’s snow all around. It’s beautiful. It’s quiet. It could just be you and him in the world. You walk in silence for a while, both lost in thought. You reach a lake, frozen over and you think how it would feel to sink to the bottom, to slide under the glassy top and just disappear forever. Seb says he wishes he had ice skates. You look at him from the corner of your eye and suddenly you need him, and you need to feel like you’re in control again. You push him to the ground and he yelps as you climb on top of him, forcing him into the soft snow, and you put your hand over his mouth. He fights for control and for a second you stop, allowing him to tell you no. But as soon as you take your hand from his mouth, he whispers in a throaty voice that he can’t wait to fuck you, that he’s thought about you every night. 

He keeps struggling against you, trying to get on top, but even though he’s strong, you still have 10 kilos on him, and besides, you have your military training. You rip his scarf from his neck, pinning his arms down with your body and wrap it round his wrists, pulling it tight and knotting it. You kiss his neck roughly, put your hand back over his mouth as you start undressing him. The snow is cold on your knees, even through your jeans. You pull his jumper and t-shirt over his head, and even though he’s still making a pretence at struggling, he lifts his arms up so you can get them off over his tied up arms and you throb at his submission to you. He gasps as you push him back onto the snow, his warm skin hitting the frozen ground.

“If I untie you, are you going to be good?” you ask him.

He nods.

“If you aren’t, there’ll be trouble.”

He nods again, eyes wild with lust. You untie him and fling the scarf aside, off into the snow. You turn him over and pull him into a kneeling position in front of you. You pull his jeans down to his knees and grab his hard cock. It’s dripping with precum as you begin to slide your hand up and down. He groans with pleasure, and you feel a wave of desire flood through you. Your own cock is rock hard and he reaches round to rub it through your jeans. You stop. He looks round at you, inquiringly, just as you grab a handful of snow and hold it onto his hardness. He screams, short and sharp, as you laugh and hold him tight round the waist with your free arm, forcing him to stay still. The snow gradually melts, his cock is still hard in your hand as you continue to wank him off, slow and hard. You spit on your hand and slide a finger into him. He gasps but after a minute or so, you feel him loosen, push another finger in, all the time your other hand working his erect cock. His short gasps and groans spur you on and when he’s ready, you pull your cock out of your jeans and push it into him. You know it’s not going to last long, and you fuck him fast and hard, each thrust making him shout in pain and pleasure, each thrust making you forget your pain. Waves of desire throb around your body. You feel him tightening around your cock, hear his moans getting louder and you whisper into his ear, harsh and demanding “come for me” and he does, covering your hand and the snow in front of him. He falls forward onto his side drained. You pull out of him, and hold his face in your hand as you ejaculate onto his chest, squeezing your eyes closed and muttering all kinds of Finnish obscenities. He looks at you, takes your hand and kisses it.

Silently, you take a handful of snow and wipe the evidence of your tryst from his chest, making him wince from the cold. You go to wipe your hand on the ground, but he takes it, staring in your eyes as he sucks each finger clean. You look down at him. Yes. You’re the one in charge again. For now.

_You’ve been having real bad dreams/you used to lie so close to me/there’s nothing more than empty sheets/between our love_

It’s Christmas morning. Seb has been up since three, begging you to let him open his presents, and talking about putting dinner in the over. You pull a pillow over your head and tell him to get back to you in about eight hours. When you got back to the cottage yesterday, you had made love again, this time gently, your kisses soft and caressing. You’d taken your time, each of you more concerned with the other’s pleasure than your own. When you both finally come, he holds you tight and whispers “I can’t believe that sex with anyone can feel that good. It’s crazy. How do you do this to me?” and you just smile and kiss him, but you’re thinking the same thing.

After, you’d get in the bath together and his touch as he rubbed soap into you had got you hard again, so you ended up with water sloshing all over the floor as he took you in his mouth. By the time you’d got to bed, it had been after 12, and now he’s up again. 

He lets you sleep until 6AM, when you’re woken by the smells of cooking. You’d bought everything in ready-prepared and it smells good. You go through to him and slip your hands around his waist. 

“Mmm, I could get used to you being my housewife,” you tell him, kissing him on the back of the neck.

He laughs and hits you on the arm.

“I’ve still got championships to win, idiot,” he laughs at you.

You drop your arms from him. He turns to look at you in surprise.

“What’s wrong?”

“Nothing.” You turn away from him.

“Kimi…come on. What’s wrong?”

“I said. Nothing. I need to have a shower.”

You go to walk off but he grabs your wrist. When you jerk your arm up to force him to let go, it surprises you both. You stare at each other for a second.

“Shit, Lobster, I’m sorry. I just…I…”

He looks at you, confused and hurt.

“I thought after last night you’d get out of this mood,” he says. “I don’t know what’s going on with you. It’s like you can’t be happy for me.”

“I am happy for you. I hate being away from you, ok?”

“So come back to Formula One. You’re the one who left.”

You look at him. You’d love to go back. But who would have you back? You can’t even drive a rally car. Ferrari dumped you for Alonso and if you ever turn up to support Seb, you’re patted on the back a couple of times and then everyone goes back to their jobs. Even Felipe had practically blanked you last time. 

“I’m happy in rallying,” you tell him and even you’re not convinced.

He shakes his head at you. 

“You are as stubborn as a mule,” he tells you, a new idiom that he picked up from Christian and that he’s fond of repeating it as often as possible, even though, when you asked him what a mule was, he had admitted he wasn’t sure. “We both know you’re not happy, and you’re taking it out on me. You were world champion too, you know what it’s like. I hardly get a minute to myself and when I do, you’re there making me feel bad.”

“I always made time for you.”

“I was always happy to come to parties with you! I always came! You never come and I have to go through them, boring myself to death, talking to idiots, without you,” he shouts. “You don’t care at all how it’s affecting me, you just think about yourself and your jealousy.”

“I’m not jealous,” you scoff. “Why would I be jealous?”

“You ARE jealous. You’re jealous because Ferrari didn’t want you and you never won anything at McLaren and now you’ve retired and no-one even remembers you.”

As soon as the words leave his lips, his eyes open wide and he claps a hand over his mouth. He puts a hand out to you.

“Shit, Kimi. I’m sorry. I didn’t mean it. It just came out and…I don’t think that stuff. You think it. I know you do.”

You’re silent. Yes, it’s all true. But it’s one thing for you to think those things. It’s another for Seb to think them, to voice them. His hand is on your shoulder and you’re looking at the ground and he’s just saying your name over and over but it’s like you’re on other planet or something, you can’t think straight. You think about the tablets, how you’d love to just go and take one or two or the whole damn box and just drift away.

“Kultaseni.”

You look up at him, the old word bringing you back to now.

“I don’t think those things. But I know you do. And none of it is true. It was bad luck that you didn’t get a contract. And you could have got one, if you hadn’t been sulking with Ferrari. But you’re so stubborn as a mule that you wouldn’t. And now you’re taking it all out on me. It’s not fair. You are one of the best drivers in the world, you know you are. You’re worth so much more than what you’re doing now and I don’t understand why you’re…I don’t know why you’re punishing yourself like this. You push me away and when I go, you sulk. You’re still punishing me for what happened in Malaysia and I can’t take it back so I don’t know what else I can do. I can’t get close to you at all. And I love you, and I will never leave you. But you don’t believe me and I don’t know how to make you believe me.”

He takes a deep breath. It’s a long speech and you don’t know how he knows this stuff or what to say, so you don’t say anything. It’s like he’s reading your mind, like he knows everything about you without you saying it. 

“Three years,” says Seb. “We’ve been together three years and you still keep pushing me away. I love you, I don’t know how many times you need me to say it, but I love you and I won’t ever stop loving you.”

But you don’t know how he can say that, because people’s feelings changed all the time. So the rest of Christmas is spent quietly and even though you exchange presents and eat dinner and go out for another walk, there is something else in the room between you that won’t go away, something watching you, desperate to keep you apart. At night, you take two of the pills and fall into a deep sleep and the next morning Seb goes for a long walk and when you finally wake up he’s sitting on the sofa crying but you just stare at him and go back to bed. And when you finally leave the next day, you’re getting into your separate cars and he kisses you and tells you to call him when you get home and you’re wondering where home is, where you’re even going, and he drives off, beeping his horn. You open the car window, throw your phone as far into the snow as it will go and drive to your place in Switzerland, because it’s so far away that you won’t have to think. Just drive.

_I never stopped/you’re still written in the scars on my heart/you’re not broken just bent/and we can learn to love again_

**2011 Rally Sweden**

You’re in Karlstad and it’s snowing. You’re sick of snow. But you are feeling better. He’s out of your life and even if you still can’t open a magazine without his face staring back at you, you feel better knowing that he can’t pry into your heart any more. He called you, he emailed you, he even called your family trying to get through to you, until you sent him a one-line email telling him to stop, that you weren’t interested, that you didn’t love him any more. You shove all the stuff that’s his or that reminds you of him into boxes and think about throwing it out, but in the end, you put it in the cellar. The result is that the house is almost bare, but it doesn’t bother you.

The rallying stuff is going ok. You don’t enjoy it, but it’s ok. You’ve entered your own team and you feel more in control of your life. You’re sure you’re going to win today. It’s snowing. You love driving in snow. 

So when you finish eighth, you fling your gear at your co-driver and go back to Switzerland, swearing that you’ll never compete again. You sit in the house, ignoring the phone, eating toast and masturbating over the most tawdry porn you can find. Always women. Never men. It was never men for you, it was just him. Your co-driver calls you up, telling you that you need to go to Mexico for the next rally, calling you every day, until you just unplug the phone. Finally, weeks later, he turns up and persuades you to go to Portugal where a guy from NASCAR approaches you and you think that going to America would be the perfect move for you, because in America, nobody cares who Sebastian Vettel is. 

You hate NASCAR. All you do is turn left. And you can’t even do that. You’re surrounded by idiots and no-one seems to even know what’s going on half the time. It’s a far cry from the smooth technical operation in the pits at Formula One. Seb still tries to contact you now and then, but you ignore his emails, ignore your mother when she tells you about your friend trying to contact you, and you fuck as many women as you can, which isn’t hard because you’re a NASCAR driver, even if you’re not doing that well. All of the women seem to be attracted to your silence, which is good, because it means you never need to talk to them. Fuck them, kick them out, next please. And no-one mentions Formula One, because no-one cares and for all you know, Seb is languishing at the bottom of the table and everyone is laughing at how the golden boy turned out to not be quite as wonderful as they’d hoped. 

You imagine Seb spinning out of every race; of Mark Webber rolling his eyes at his teammates’s stupidity; of Christian Horner wondering what the hell to do with this mess of a driver who had clearly had beginner’s luck. Mostly you imagine him being demoted to Torro Rosso and crying as he finishes in P22 in every qualifying session before he has to leave Formula One and go and work in an anonymous job where people are mean to him. But whenever you start picturing people saying something cutting to Seb, you can see the German’s eyes watering and his lip trembling, and even though it’s only in your mind, you have to shut your eyes tight and think about something else.

It’s August when you get the call. You’re in your apartment in Florida and there’s a blonde woman beside you whose name you can’t remember but she’s sleeping and you’ve been wondering for a few minutes if you should wake her up to kick her out or if you should wake her up and have sex with her again. The call wakes her and when you hear who it is, you gesture to her to leave you alone, and she gets out of bed and you stare at her, phone pressed to your chest as you wait for her to get dressed. After she’s finished, you turn your back on her and you hear her slam the door on the way out. And when you’ve finished the phone call, you book a plane to England and drive to Enstone, your heart lighter than it’s been in years.

_Oh, tear ducts and rust/I’ll fix it for us/we’re collecting dust/but our love’s enough_

**Jerez 2012, pre-season testing**

It’s the hotel in Jerez where you first see him again. You’ve just come back from a triumphant day of testing, where you set all the fastest times and where everyone thumped you on the back and told you how glad they were that you were back, and teased you about being so shit in NASCAR, and how Seb better watch his back. And you feel good and when you’re in the car, you wonder why you ever left. It feels so instinctual, setting the fastest times should require more effort, but you feel like you and the car are the same body, like you’re moving as one. Lotus don’t care about PR and are happy to let you do your own thing, which is driving.

You’re in the hotel bar with the team and you have a drink and Eric is telling you stories and you’re laughing along with him and the engineers when you see him at reception. He’s checking in and he hands his bags over to the bellboy. You tell Eric you need to go and you walk over to Seb.

“Hi,” you say simply.

He looks up at you. He looks older, more tired. You don’t know what to expect, what to do. 

“Well done on last year,” you tell him and you hope you sound sincere, because you mean it.

“Thanks,” he replies, and he smiles, but it’s not that smile that lit up rooms, it’s sadder and it doesn’t really reach his eyes. He fiddles with a tag on his rucksack.

“I better go,” he says. “I have to go to training.”

“Can we talk later? Go for dinner?”

He sighs deeply. Shit, you think.

“Maybe another day.”

He turns and walks away and you watch as he goes.

As you lie in bed that night, you wonder how you can get him back. That’s all you want. Is it what brought you back to Formula One? You don’t know. But you know that you can’t stand to see him sad and you can’t stand that his smile has dimmed. You know that you can stand to see him win over you again and again if that’s what makes him happy. 

You think about all the stupid, romantic things you can do, all the things you could do to make him happy, and none of it seems right. So in the end, you decide the only way to fix things is to be honest and hope that he accepts it.

You’re holding it in/you’re pouring a drink/no, nothing is as bad as it seems/we’ll come clean

It’s the final day of testing and you know you have to talk to him because you can’t avoid him all season. You casually ask Mark which hotel room Seb’s in and he doesn’t know because, in his words, he couldn’t give a shit, so you ask Jenson, who tells you and asks if you’re going to prank him. You nod, and Jenson just shakes his head a little bit and rolls his eyes, because he knows that that’s the most ridiculous concept ever, Kimi Raikkonen playing a prank. But you know that he isn’t going to tell anyone, because he is nice, and you wish you’d been nicer to him. You pat him awkwardly on the arm and go off to find Seb’s room.

You knock on the door and he answers. He’s wearing a t-shirt and boxer shorts. He lets you in and you sit on the bed. You try to think about where to start, how to make everything better, how to make everything ok again. Shit, you should have thought more about this. Be honest. What can you say that’s honest?

“Your car looks good,” you tell him.

He laughs. 

“Wow, did you come back to Formula One just to tell me that?”

You look at him. He seems different. Sort of bitter, sort of on edge. He’s changed. Because of all his success? Or because he doesn’t trust you?

“I’m sorry,” you tell him. “I was a shit to you, and I’m sorry. I just…everything was going out of control and I felt like I was the worst person in the world and I took it all out on you because…because you’re so much better than me. At everything. And that really hurts to admit. But I am sorry.”

“It’s ok,” he tells you. “It really is. I’m fine.”

You don’t know where to go from here. You thought he’d sob and shout and then fall into your arms. You thought you’d have sex in every position imaginable, that he’d beg you for more. You didn’t really expect him to be this quiet. 

“I’m glad,” you say, even though that’s not what you mean to say at all and you’re not sure how those words end up coming out of your mouth. You stand up and turn to go and you’re about to walk out the door when you turn back.

“I love you, Seb. I never stopped loving you. There’s been hundreds of women, and every single time, I thought of you. Every time I walked in the snow, I thought of you. Every time I saw a lobster, I thought of you. The only time I ever stopped thinking about you was when I was driving and I think I clocked up more miles in the last two years than I did in Formula One trying to forget you. But I can’t, and I won’t. I love you so much and when I think about how I’ve hurt you, I feel sick. I can’t ask you to take me back, but I just want you to know that I love you.”

Seb doesn’t say anything, just stares at the ground and a lump comes to your throat and you don’t know what else you can do except walk out. What else can you do? It was hard enough to say all of that. You walk quickly down the corridor to your room and lie down on the bed. You try to sleep but you can’t, so you watch mindless TV for a while instead. The phone rings and it’s Eric and he’s checking that you’re ok and asks when you’re leaving and you say you don’t know so he tells you he’ll get someone to sort it all out for you. You’re about to tell him you’ll do it yourself, but he’s already gone and he doesn’t answer when you try to call him back. 

A few minutes later, there’s a knock on the door, so you pull your jeans on, ready to deal with whoever books flights and arranges your diary these days. You open the door and he’s standing there, his face puffy from crying. He comes in and sits on the bed and you sit next to him and put your arm around him. He puts his face up to yours for a kiss and when you feel his lips on yours again, the feeling goes straight to your groin. You kiss his neck and you can feel that he’s bigger, more muscular. You look into his eyes and he looks back, but it’s like he’s challenging you to drop your gaze first. He pulls your t-shirt off and you let him. He traces a finger over your chest, down to your abs. You’ve been at the gym far more than you’d let on to anybody and you know you look good. His touch makes you shiver. He pulls your jeans open and pulls them down over your hard cock. You go to push his head down onto it, but he pushes you off him and stands up.

“Don’t push me,” he hisses. He’s far stronger than he used to be. You’re confused for a second, this is not your usual script, and he sees that and, with the same killer instinct he’s been showing on the track, uses it to his advantage. With one hand, he grabs your arm, the other covering your mouth and he knocks you to the ground. He sits on top of you, weighing you down, one arm pinned behind your back, which he keeps twisting on, making you grimace. You try to push back, but you don’t stand a chance. 

He pulls his hand away from your mouth and shifts his body up onto your chest. He unbuttons his jeans, pulls his cock out and pushes it roughly into your mouth, pinning the rest of you down with his hand. You gag, the position is not comfortable for you and he keeps hitting the back of your throat, but even though you’re desperate for air, he keeps fucking your mouth, his gaze never leaving yours. You reach down and touch your cock, because even though this hurts and you can’t quite catch your breath, you feel so turned on that you can’t think of anything outside Seb’s cock slamming into your mouth over and over, his stare fierce and unyielding, the pressure of his body on yours.

Your cock is slick with precome and you’re just at the edge when Seb grabs your hair and goes very still and your throat is suddenly full and you swallow and swallow and Seb’s orgasm triggers your own and you’re covered in sticky white strands. He rolls off you and lies on the floor panting. You stare at him. 

This is Seb, the only person who ever really knew you, the only person you ever wanted to know. The same, but different. He still looks like an angel, but there’s something steely in his eyes that wasn’t there before. Whether he’s different because people get harder and more bitter with age, or because you hurt him, or because the two championships gave him a nasty edge, you don’t know. Maybe it’s all three. Life happens and people change, people who were gentle and tender need to become hardened to the world, or they get swept away, trodden on by those who never had that softness. 

He turns and looks at you and you reach out a hand to him. He hesitates for just a second before putting his hand in yours. You pull him close and, curled up together, you fall asleep in each other’s arms, right there on the floor, and you sleep well for the first time in years.

_We’re not broken, just bent/and we can learn to love again_

**Abu Dahbi 2012**

It’s not your first podium together this season, but it’s the first one with you on the top step so you enjoy it more. You’re not afraid to admit it. When the Finnish national anthem plays, you have to think about something else because if you start crying, you’re never going to hear the end of it. You’re so happy to have won, your first win of the season, and you’re so happy that Seb’s here with you. They hand you your trophy and then you and Seb spray each other with champagne, while Fernando rolls his eyes because you mostly forget to include him in your celebrations. You’d forgotten how good it feels to win. You put your arms round each other for the photo and he whispers in your ear that he’s proud. You tell him to shut the fuck up but you’re smiling as you say it and he gives you a look that means he can’t wait til all the press is over so you are alone.

After all the press and the celebrations, you and Seb stumble back to his room, and you’re drunk and you have sex languidly, messily, arms and legs everywhere and neither of you are much good but it’s fine, it’s nice. Seb’s relaxed into himself more as time goes on. He lights up the room with his smile again, but he isn’t given to shouting excitedly or singing at the top of his voice any more. Sometimes he says things about Mark that you just can’t imagine your sweet, angelic boy saying, not in the old days anyway. He still carries his little lobster around though and if you’re in a bad mood, he cajoles you out of it. It’s not the same as before, but it’s enough. It’s enough for now.

The next morning you wake up and you both have blinding hangovers and you’re a tangle of sweaty limbs and sheets. He groans and stands up and you think he’s going to puke but then he comes back to bed and pushes something into your hand.

“Present,” he mumbles.

You open your hand up and there’s a little toy.

“I didn’t know what a Kultaseni looked like, so I got this. Closest thing I could find to your personality.”

You look closer and laugh.

“Morko,” you say. The character from the Moomins. From your childhood, from Finland. Everybody’s favourite TV show growing up.

“It’s just like you. It is cold and scary and it frightens everyone away. But really, it is just scared. Scared of getting hurt, I think.”

You shake your head at him fondly and kiss him on the lips. He knows everything about you. There’s no point in hiding anything because he can see right through you.

“Do you like it?” he asks, those pleading eyes just like they were 5 years ago.

“I love it. And I love you. And you’re right. It’s just like me.”

He looks at you, head tilted. You’ve finally admitted something to him, something of your self. Like it was nothing, like you did that kind of thing all the time.

“You never stop surprising me, you little Morko,” he tells you.

You open your arms up and he settles into them, and you drift back to sleep, thinking of the next podium, the next Christmas, the next holiday, all the times you can spend together, trying to make things ok again.

**Author's Note:**

> i've had a couple of requests to write another part to this. however, this was written in the midst of a very bad break-up and is thus painfully close to my real life. i doubt i will ever get back into the head space to write another part so you'll just have to imagine that simi lived happily ever after (or did they?)
> 
> disclaimer: none of this happened.   
> rating: black flag
> 
> i always welcome constructive criticism, kind comments and gentle nagging to write more. if you find any errors, whether they are language-based, factual or formatting, please do let me know.


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